


the sea cook

by ballantine



Series: red wind of nassau [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: James Flint is having a bad day. He puts most of the blame on being stuck playing parrot in John Silver’s kitchen. It seems like the cruelest of fates that his animagus form should end up being one of the few bird species to possess a sense of smell.“Pieces of eight,” Flint says, which is his parrot code for you’re fucking burning that, you incompetent fool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I figure once it's 1000 words, I might as well post it here too.
> 
> This was a 100% coping-with-november-8th story, so it's kind of silly.

 

James Flint is having a bad day. He puts most of the blame on being stuck playing parrot in John Silver’s kitchen. It seems like the cruelest of fates that his animagus form should end up being one of the few bird species to possess a sense of smell.

“Pieces of eight,” Flint says, which is his parrot code for _you’re fucking burning that, you incompetent fool._

John shrugs his shoulders irritably, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Flint, who merely ruffles his feathers and sidles further along his perch.

John says, “Don’t _pieces of eight_ me. I told you to just sign on as the sea cook under a fake name, but you decided to be a paranoid bastard instead.”  

Flint takes umbrage at that; it’s not paranoia if you’d been hunted as recently as three months ago. The muggle world may think the infamous pirate captain Flint was dead, but unfortunately the wizarding world was not so easily fooled. Word eventually got round that a distinctive red-headed man was seen cooking for a tavern in Bristol, and Flint’d had to change into his animagus form to hide.

It’s been a long three months. If it hadn’t been for news of his map cropping up, he likely would have tried to peck himself to death.

“If you hadn’t made the map while drunk,” John had said at the time, “we could have fetched the treasure long ago. We could all be kicking back in Paris right now, eating beignets.”

John got uncharacteristically bad-tempered whenever Flint had to hide for any length of time; one can’t exactly fuck a parrot.

Still, that was no reason to go bringing up the map fiasco. The plan had been sound enough in theory: make the map to the treasure and then wipe the memory of the location from his head so it cannot be extracted under duress.

Unfortunately, as he’d been letting the map dry there’d been rum, and then John had come around and there’d been fucking, and somewhere in between these events Billy had come along and filched the map. Flint hopes his prudish eyes were at least still stinging from the picture they must have made on the cabin pallet.

Flint is about to reply, or at least use his wing to cuff the “sea cook” round the head, but then there’s a knock and young Hawkins is ambling into the cabin.

He heaves a mental sigh and goes back to pretending to be a normal parrot.

John’s got a peculiar soft spot for the boy. It’s just one of the many things about this voyage that have unsettled Flint. He’s never even considered siring children. Mudbloods learn very quickly just how little the supposed bonds of family mean; your father can kick you out of the house for being unnatural and then your new “family” at school can spurn you for your low background. He’s seen this world for what it is and failed to change it — why would he want to introduce a child to that?

It never occurred to him that John might feel differently. The way he’s taken the cabin boy under his wing makes Flint think he’s going to talk to Madi about her contraceptive charm when this is all over.

He hears his name and is startled back into listening to the conversation.

“Now, this bird,” John is saying, "is maybe two hundred years old, Hawkins—they live forever mostly.”

_Cheeky bugger_ , Flint thinks and tries to dig his feet into his shoulders. Why couldn’t he have been a bird of prey with big sharp talons?

John doesn’t appear to notice his irritation. “If anybody’s seen more wickedness, it must be the devil himself. She’s sailed with England, the great Cap'n England, the pirate. She’s been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the boarding of the viceroy of the Indies out of Goa, she was; and to look at her you would think she was a baby. But you smelt powder—didn’t you, cap'n?” These last words positively cooed.

And then, to Flint’s horror, John tries to pet his head with a finger. It takes all of his control not to snap at it.

"Stand by to go about,” Flint says, because he’s been tracking the shift of the boat, and he’s fairly sure none of the useless fucks topside know what they’re doing. Sure enough, a moment later, the cabin rocks as the ship takes the wind crosswise.

Hawkins gives him a curious look, and John says quickly, “Ah, she’s a handsome craft, she is,” and then tries to force feed him a fucking sugar cube. Flint pecks at it reluctantly, listening to John continue to prattle on like a backwoods theater troupe’s worst idea of what a sailor sounds like.

It takes what feels like forever, but eventually Hawkins exits the cabin and leaves them alone once more.

Flint wastes no time. He launches himself towards his cage, making sure to knock his wing backwards into John’s face as he goes. _That’s for telling everyone I’m a bloody girl parrot._

“Just trying to sell the story you wanted to tell,” John says. Then he sighs and puts his wooden spoon down. For a moment, his face falls into bleak lines. He looks tired and unhappy. Flint shuffles on the top of his cage to stop himself from flying back over.

“Can you — change back? For just an hour?” John asks quietly. His voice doesn’t hold much hope; he knows as well as Flint how risky that would be, here in an unlocked cabin amongst a very unruly crew. After a moment, John nods wearily, as if Flint had actually voiced the thought aloud. “Yes, I know.”

He looks away and says to the wall of the cabin, “I guess I just miss you, you bloody tyrant.”

And Flint’s always been weak in this very specific way. He ends up flying back to John’s shoulder and remains there as the other man finishes the crew’s dinner.


End file.
